


Suppressive Fire

by countessofbiscuit



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Republic Commando Series - Karen Traviss, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Behavior, Canon-Typical Speciesism, Clonecest, Cuy'val Dar, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Hepful Handsies, Internalized ... Something, M/M, Mandalorian Culture, Masturbation, PWP, Squadcest, broskis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:21:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/countessofbiscuit/pseuds/countessofbiscuit
Summary: “You represent the pinnacle of human development. Of human excellence. Of human endurance. But you arenothingwithout the man next to you. Against him, you find the truest measure of yourself.”- Walon Vau to his trainees, SO Wing, Tipoca City, years before Geonosis
Relationships: RC-1262 | Delta-62 | Scorch/RC-1207 | Delta-07 | Sev
Kudos: 52
Collections: Banned Together Bingo 2020





	Suppressive Fire

**Author's Note:**

> Two bros, chillin' on a top bunk no feet apart 'cause they're vode. 
> 
> I once wrote that Delta's resident meatwhacker occasionally jerked Sev off out of brotherly concern. Figured I should finally explore what I meant :p
> 
> This is a fill for Banned Together Bingo: Totally Vulgar.

**Fleet Support, Ord Mantell, barrack block 7 Alpha, six standard weeks after Geonosis**

She’d be built like a tank. That was Requirement the First. 

She’d be humanoid, or near enough. Her arms would number ... _four._ Yes, four arms, each of them doing something clever. _Two to open my ass, two to pinch my nipples, her long tongue going to crazy town on my cock, burning off my pubes with her caustic breath—_

 _Sergeant Draka._ The near-human-tank was Sergeant Draka, sure as day. 

Scorch grabbed this realization with one firm hand and tugged. 

Her species was _shab-if-I-know:_ some unhappy hybrid who’d washed up on the far edge of the Outer Rim and been scraped into one of those fringe clans that never removed their helmets. Her folks developed a reputation for ritualized kidnapping that didn’t sit right with Jango. He’d ripped Draka’s helmet off in a duel, apparently, and spending ten years training the spawn of her enemy was the price she’d agreed to pay to regain her honor. All those kids and nowhere to run: a bitter form of torture for both parties. Her trainees were an insular, silent bunch with a tendency to tactically acquire your shit when you weren’t looking, but they got the job done. 

Scorch had first seen Draka at a parade for the prime minister when he was three. He’d never forgotten it: she had fangs and yellow eyes and ears that twitched at the tips like they were catching your current of fear. No wonder they’d encouraged her to keep a lid on. 

Then Scorch was six and change and he’d stumbled upon her in a hallway. She’d had a cadet upside down, smoking him good for something. “What are _you_ gawping at, Six-Two?” she’d snarled, her generous chest heaving, three spare arms tensing in his direction. “ _Shift it._ Unless you want your balls torn off next.” 

Scorch had been a little scared and a lot turned on.

Sergeant Vau didn’t have to use many words to put the fear of Fett under your skin. He was a conservative man. Sergeant Draka regarded a _shebs_ -chewing as the highest form of oratory and her calling in life. Whenever Scorch stood downwind of her in the combat hall, he could feel his eyebrows being singed off a second time. 

Sweating a little, Scorch’s core tensed as this fantasy tightened vividly in his holographic mind. 

_She puts two hands around my cock, one hand on my nipple, one hand clawing under my balls—_

Scorch flipped her on her back. 

_She uses all four arms to spread her trunky legs, hairy as a man’s, wide in invitation—_

“Knock it off,” barked Sev. 

She was gone. In her place was the knowledge that his brother was clued in to what Scorch was doing on the bottom bunk and determined to make it stop. 

But the pressure under Scorch’s balls held firm and his erection stood fast. Sev was an oaf with shit timing; there was a reason they gave Scorch the fiddly wires and det controls. He stretched his fingers and reset his grip. “Not happening, _vod._ ”

“Do you have to be so loud about it?”

“Loud?” Had he said something? Lost control of his breathing? 

“Yes. _Loud._ Like you’re slugging a hamm sandwich.”

Scorch frowned. “Have you ever _had_ a hamm sandwich?”

“I don’t want one now.” 

There was some improvement to technique needed there: Scorch was always open to feedback—to the _challenge_ of reducing the marginal noise of a wank. “You embarrassed?” he found himself asking, strokes resuming. Less hamm-fistedly. His orgasm had slumped a little and he'd have to tenderly call it back up. 

“I’m embarrassed _for_ you,” Sev said. 

Scorch closed his eyes, picturing something ... 

Sergeant Draka was back, and now she was holding him _and_ Sev upside down. The arrival of RC-1207 into the sim wasn’t throwing Scorch off. In fact, it was encouraging. _Exciting._ He even leaked a little at the idea. What was a commando without his squad? Chafed, apparently. He should’ve brought Sev into the game two nights ago, after they’d been rudely pulled from stasis in preparation for some op known only to Boss. 

Scorch didn’t remember decant. But Sergeant Vau, who'd wasted no time rocking up to his watery exile when Jango had put out the word, said they’d been ugly, annoyed, and ornery. The nursery techs had given them mock, miniature Deeces to keep their fussy hands and mouths occupied. 

Coming out of stasis _had_ to be worse—they were issued Deeces again, but they weren’t left alone to soothe themselves to sleep with weapons. Now their waking moments belonged entirely to some Jedi named Zey. They’d been forced to run a gamut of proprioception and endurance tests, cleaned their spanking new Katarn and cleaned it once more for luck on Boss’s orders, and told to familiarize themselves with their upgraded HUD systems. 

Scorch had and he'd found it wanting: no pre-loaded heavy-isotope bangers or high-definition tailhead reference holos. Did he have to do everything himself in this _shabla_ army? 

After submitting to all this with only _mild_ complaint—Fixer had sworn in full sentences—the op order was still not forthcoming. Classic hurry up and fekkin' wait. Wait for instructions they didn’t even _need._ Coordinates, intel support, and a broad objective would have sufficed for a commando tasking: top brass still had a lot to learn. It had left Delta with more downtime than they liked and had left Scorch wanting nothing more than to take care of that perennial need in his groin. And each time, he had to get a little more creative. 

“What’re you thinking ‘bout, Sev?” he teased, poking the boundaries of this sim. Longnecks hated that: it’s why they let the commandos have off-world field trips to forsaken places where they couldn’t peel back the corners without dying. “Something profane? Something a little non-regulation?”

“The _shab_ is wrong with you.”

“I’ll tell you what I’m thinking ... ” The opportunity for candor—without Fixer on the opposite bunk telling him to pipe down or Boss around to make it happen—was interesting. And as far as Scorch knew, this slap-dash prefab of a support base didn’t have surveillance bugs like their dorms on Kamino. The range and assault course here weren't even specced for lasers; they had to waste live rounds on discs and be honest about getting locked onto. Not likely. 

With nothing left to hide, Scorch rolled away from the wall and relaxed onto his back, his cock stiff and spry. He pulled his hood up and over his wet glans and back down again, as far as he could take it, skin smarting nicely at the stretch. He went on, “I’m thinking about Sergeant Draka.”

“Stop,” Sev said. 

“Her thick thighs in my face—” 

_“Stop.”_

Scorch spat in his hand and throttled his shaft. “Biting our balls … ” Okay, maybe _that_ was a little weird. But if Fixer’s quick work of the base pyrowall in the anxious hours before chill-down was anything to go by, _weird_ could be good. Better than good. 

“Don’t make me come down there,” Sev growled. Not unlike Sergeant Draka, actually. 

Scorch couldn’t help himself. “Oh yeah, _do_ come down here ... ” He bucked into his fist, as if to jerk out that ball of bliss from behind his sack. The mass of him tensed rigid under one fixed goal. His fumbled around for something in the sheets with his free hand. “Come down her thick legs ... ”

If anything could singe Draka’s hairs, it’d be Sev’s spunk. Scorch loved a blast, but Sev would sprinkle baradium on his Oaties every morning if he could. Sev would spill like a gutted aiwha, animalistic and uncontrolled, and Draka would hiss and gnash her teeth and— 

And suddenly, Scorch was over the line. His base clenched hard, choking his groan of release. He convulsed and came thickly into one of yesterday’s socks. 

_“Shab,”_ he croaked, his vision returning, his limbs pooling with pituitary pleasure. “Blew up real good.”

Somewhere above him, Sev huffed. “Three nights in a row. You’re disgusting—you know that, right?”

“Stasis, my _shebs._ I’ve never had such busy balls in my short life.” Scorch twisted languidly to the edge of the mattress and sat up, squeezing his cock clean. “Cooking blanks like they might get lucky.” The knotted sock got buried in tomorrow’s laundry and Scorch borrowed some of Boss’s wet wipes for the cleanup. Sarge wouldn’t miss them. 

“The rest of us are fine,” Sev countered.

Scorch glanced at Sev over his shoulder. His brother looked like a corpse who’d taken up reading in the afterlife. Base bunks weren’t much cosier than a stasis pod, but something else was keeping Sev’s spine stiff. Something that might affect squad performance if it wasn’t addressed: a bad case of self-inflicted blue balls. 

Scorch pulled up his pants and ambled over. “You know ... you say that. But _this_ says something else.” He grabbed Sev’s perky junk. 

Happily for his brother, Scorch’s grip was light. So when Sev knocked Scorch backwards at the throat, he didn’t take Sev’s sack with him. A scuffle ensued, half-hearted on Scorch’s side, though Sev was obviously in one of his fuck-off moods. He always was crankiest after a nap; it’d take him days to shake off stasis. And he was still _pissed_ about Procurement’s theft of his helmet, with its authentic Gamma blood enshrined in red paint. That _di’kutla_ squad had been shipped to Triple Zero, and until Sev butted heads with them again, he’d be as scratchy as a flea-bitten akk. 

Using the shallow bunkrail, Scorch flung himself up and collapsed onto his brother, asking the cantilevered cot to bear the weight of two commandos. He was a trusting soul. The tussle continued until Scorch allowed Sev to secure a headlock, rather than drag them both onto the floor. They’d just gotten out of one unnatural bath and he didn’t fancy a dunk in bacta. 

Scorch tapped Sev’s thigh. “Alright, alright,” he said hoarsely. Sev’s hold loosened a fraction and Scorch scooted out from it. Sitting up, he grabbed the holozine that had gotten pinned against the wall: some monthly edition of erudition that called itself _Lasers & Blasters._ “Didn’t know you could, Oh-Seven.” 

Sev snatched the ‘zine to stuff it under his pillow. “It’s above your cadet-grade.” 

“I think everyone knows you’re the knuckle-dragger around here, not me.”

“I think everyone knows I’m the hero of Geonosis, Killer of Sun Fac.”

Scorch made a theatrical noise that sounded like a broken, wet bes’bev. “Woo-hoo! You hit the broad side of a bantha!” 

Now Sev _really_ tried to catapult him onto the floor. But Scorch’s close-combat situational awareness noticed that his brother’s cockstand was holding strong. 

“Sev,” he said, panting a little when they’d reached another stalemate, “the only people who know Sun Fac’s name are us, some spooks, and that random forward air controller.”

“Shove off.” Sev kicked him with his boot. He wore them to bed like an animal. 

Scorch shook his head. “Not until you take care of yourself.” 

“You have some _shabla_ nerve, _vod._ ”

“Rule 45: there should be no happier union than that between a commando and his weapon. But you’ve neglected yours.” He cast a judgemental eye at Sev’s tented pants. They’d been sleeping, shooting, and shitting cheek-by-jowl for their entire lives: Scorch didn’t know why one more bodily function would be _that_ much worse. In that moment, he had more sympathy for his brother’s dick than his brother’s karked-up dignity. Or his own.

He glanced at the chrono. Boss and Fixer still had half an hour at the range and they’d probably hit the mess on the way back. Time enough for a little more equipment maintenance; Scorch believed he was being supremely generous offering what remained of his. He flopped over into a plank above his brother, who was still lying deathly prone. “If you’re not gonna help yourself ...”

“What?” Sev sneered. “You’ll do the honors?”

“Maybe I will. I _am_ better than you, after all,” Scorch grinned. Suddenly, he sensed a game that he wanted to _win._ They were all like that. Competitive. Not so much against each other, but with each other. Getting screwy Sev off would be the ultimate victory: no one would lose and everyone would leave happy. 

“You can’t.” Sev’s disinterest was as threadbare as his pillowcase.

“Alright, _vod._ I’ll take that bet.” Scorch dug the heel of his hand into his brother’s persistent erection. Sev’s eyelids fluttered. No greater tell in the book. “I bet I can get you off before Boss and Fixer get back. Just this once.” 

Sev circled his hands around Scorch’s throat, hissing through perfect teeth bared tight, “You—can’t—Sergeant—Vau—would—”

Scorch scoffed. “You see Sarge here? He’s fucked off to his castle with his _kaminii_ retirement fund.” 

Vau had never promised he’d be there on the other side, but ... did he know they’d done a good job? That they’d been singled out for the assassination of the bugs’ chief lieutenant? That they’d survived—no, that they'd _excelled,_ when hundreds of other squads hadn’t? Did he even _care?_

Scorch had to wonder. 

He shoved those thoughts aside with conscious effort; they wouldn’t do him any good. Better that Vau wasn't here anyway: he would sniff mightily at this interpretation of _no brother left behind._ “Hells, he’s probably rubbing one out to a portrait of the dead missus right now,” Scorch continued. 

Sev’s grip tightened for their sergeant’s honor. “He _wouldn’t—_ ” 

“He would. Stars love the old _chakaar,_ Sev, but he’s only flesh and blood.” Actually, that’s all Vau was: cragged skin and blue blood twisted ‘round a frame that seemed to boast a few more bones than average. There must have been a heart in there, too—see: _Mird_ —but Delta had spent their entire cadethood seeking it out to little good. Especially Sev, though he’d slot you for saying so. 

Oh, _Sev’ika:_ flesh and blood, plus a lot of bile and bad humor. He stank out the backend when he’d scarfed down too many ration packs, but what would splatter out the front? Scorch was beyond curious now, as he palmed his brother’s package through his clothes. 

Sev’s hands held firm, but it was half-hearted, his thumbs only tickling his brother’s trachea. His nostrils flared. He was afraid. No, even better—he was _desperate._

It was all the vindication Scorch needed. “That’s right— _breathe._ Relax. Six-Two’s got you.” He tugged Sev’s fatigues down, hitching the elasticene band behind his balls. Sev grimaced. _Yeah, it might not be comfortable _yet,_ but just wait; a little pressure there goes a long way._

“That _hurts,_ ” growled Sev. 

“Gonna hand me the game?” If Sev had lost sight of his mission objective, he really _was_ gummed up. “Jerking off through a fly feels like doing it in formation,” Scorch said. 

Sev turned his head to the wall. If he’d done it at all, that was clearly how. 

Scorch took his theoretically-identical brother in hand and felt the heft and heat of a dick that was still an inch left of familiar, however many times he'd seen it. Sev was _throbbing._ His hands fell away, as deliberately limp as the rest of him, like he was trying to absent himself from his body. 

“ _So_ ... Sergeant Draka—” Scorch began, realizing he’d just been staring at his brother’s _kad_ for longer than was right. He mentally constructed the fantasy again, deliberately this time, while he warmed up to the idea of working someone else’s shaft. _Sev’s_ shaft. He imagined what Sev might like to hear, because Scorch sure as _shab_ wasn’t keen on hardening up between his brother’s legs himself. That would just be strange. “She’s got you under two hands and a squawking bug under the other, honkin' great tits ready to smother the both of you ...” 

Up until he’d found his brother’s cock in his hand, Scorch had fancied himself an honest commando. He really did. Then he had to close the dissonance between his not-insignificant-interest in Sev’s pink tip and, well, _Sev:_ that awkward grump-a-lump who couldn’t look at a sapient or sentient, droid or organic, without scaring them away. 

Scorch did it by telling himself this was just his own his cock in a mirror. A learning experience, if nothing else. And his tongue loosened to remember the bet. He began rubbing with intent. “She snaps its neck. _Crunch._ And isn’t that just your favoritest sound, Sev, ol’ boy?”

“Not her,” Sev said hoarsely.

 _Manda,_ he really was giving this to Scorch in the bag. “Who?” 

“—don’t know—I don’t _shabla_ know.”

“Easy, _vod._ You got a lifetime to find out. Well, half of one.”

“Shut. _Up._ ”

Scorch changed the program and flicked a thumbnail right under Sev’s hood. Scratched out whatever dream Sev had building behind his scrunched eyes. It was irrelevant, whatever cleaned the pipes. If his brother didn’t want to say, who was Scorch to ask? The silky give of his hard-on and his nasally gasps vouched that Sev was having an a-okay time. Scorch wouldn’t have a hand, otherwise.

Sev bubbled from his tip. Scorch felt himself flush, but he was more intrigued than anything. It really _was_ like watching a holo of himself. Obviously, Scorch was more handsome, mostly because he wasn’t a fucking psycho ... but a cock was a cock. He lengthened his movement with the slick aid of precome, fisting all the way down to Sev’s slightly lighter curls. 

Suddenly, Sev’s fingers wrapped around his. For an alarming half-second, Scorch feared his wrist was about to be snapped. _Goodbye dominant hand and superhuman reaction times._

But Sev just held on, eyes pinched shut, arm as unyielding as a barrel.

The situation became more straightforward. Emboldened by the team effort, Scorch stroked faster. _Harder._ He read the lines in Sev’s fierce face like a manual for a weapon he’d been handed five years ago. A clone lifetime. A batcher’s intuition. He shucked Sev’s sheath down as hard as he could, and twisted his wrist at the top further than Sev’s delicate skin wanted to go. Scorch figured his brother liked the bite of pain. “You feelin’ the heat? You gonna spill all over my fingers, _Sev’ika?_ ” he teased.

Sev heaved like he might throw up, and he coughed out only two words: “Do. _Not._ ” 

_Yeah, he hates that kind of chummy_ osik _and yakking._ It was almost sad how much Sev knew what he _didn’t_ want, but couldn’t voice what he did. Even Fixer grunted in approval when something wriggled across the ‘pad’s screen; at least he had some idea what kind of parts he fancied. It was a _very_ broad pool. 

Sev just looked embarrassed to be asked. 

“Someone’s gonna love your shit, Sev,” Scorch encouraged, coming at it again from a different vector. If he didn’t show his wacky brother some love, who would?

Vau hadn’t been there to bestow that curt nod. They didn’t want to be spoiled. Scorch and his brothers weren’t Skirata’s pups: they’d survived Geonosis _because_ they weren’t. But ... Delta was here and Theta wasn’t and Vau had no karkin’ clue what a close-run thing it’d been. Didn't know how the knife-edge of his training had probably made all the difference and how chuffed they all were about it. 

Or how Sev had made that one-in-a-million shot to Sun Fac’s fighter with half his visor splattered in bug spray. Scorch would remember _that_ for the rest of his short life: angry tendrils of smoke rising behind Sev as he turned contemptuously away from his kill, his helmet gooey with Geonosian. 

There were brothers, and there were _your_ brothers: the ones who made you better just by being there beside you. Sev was one of those. 

Scorch didn’t have to improv _osik,_ now. The words came as easy as his muscle memory as he pistoned his palm along Sev’s angry cock. “Fuckin’ proud of you, Sev: bane of bugs and sniper extraordinaire. Wish Vau could’ve seen it, I really do. I’ll have CLONINT’s guts for rappelling lines for wiping Boss’s cache.” 

Sev’s free hand had bunched into the sheet, his knuckles whitening. He stilled suddenly, tense as the second before the opening salvo. _Here it comes._

“Ooh, so that’s how Sev breaks. Result!” Scorch had imagined Sev’s orgasm would be like squeezing blood from a stone. Not at all: it came as surely and naturally as his own. Scorch watched intently. Who knew their balls became one in the moment of triumph like that? As Sev’s practically disappeared into his taut body, Scorch had to think on his feet to save his brother’s freshly-laundered fatigues—or, on his knees and elbows, as the case was.

Thunking his other arm across his face, Sev lost the bet with a violent shudder—and without a sound, probably so he couldn’t say he'd enjoyed it. He squirted fully but cleanly onto the open spread of the ‘zine, thanks to Scorch’s management and direction. A long, messy line of cloudy white right across the cross-sectioned barrel of a Magna-Caster-100. _Thank fuck for flimsi._

Shaking off Sev's hand, Scorch dropped the wilting cock. It was _not_ attractive, and he prayed the ladies wouldn't think the same, warring with himself about whether he could succumb to the mortification of going limp in someone’s mouth. Maybe it was better to pull out and stripe them? It merited further research on Fixer’s ‘pad, just in case.

“Target softened. Should make things easier for you. Hope you took notes,” Scorch said, oddly transfixed by the description of the ‘Caster’s invisible quarrels he’d spotted on the page. He was growing itchy for a time-sensitive _rummage_ —Scorch would wager his lower left nut that Delta could now go toe-to-toe with any of Draka’s squads for acquisition. With any luck, this mysterious upcoming op would net them some exotic toys. 

He shifted his weight, feeling the need to move before _that_ idea made him stiff again and everyone got the wrong impression.

“‘m not soft, _di’kut,_ ” Sev mumbled from underneath his arm. 

Scorch patted his thigh. “Sure you’re not.” 

“Getting soft will get us popped.” 

Scorch was halfway off the bunk, but he stopped to squeeze Sev’s fucked-up head. “Hey, _ner vod._ Look at me—look at _me,_ ” he demanded. Sev let his arm fall behind his curls but he kept his gaze elsewhere. “No need to quote Sarge to me. Or go grey over stupid stuff like him.” 

Stuff like _distraction_ —a dirty word in Vau’s lexicon. What did they have to get distracted by, anyhow? Grainy holovids? They had enough room in their over-engineered skulls for a few of those, and if they ever got to touch the real thing, Scorch figured they wouldn’t lose their heads. Right? Civvies were so unexceptional, after all. Probably couldn’t tell a maranium blast from a benign xenon light sculpture. Brothers, especially your fellow commandos, were the only company worth keeping—even Vau said so, and Skirata had said Vau had wined and dined New Mando aristos and had bedded a fekkin’ _princess_ in a past life. 

Eventually, Sev’s sour mug puckered in something like thought. “If you fucked up my range scores, I’m going to piss in your pack.” 

Scorch laughed, dumping his feet onto the floor and wandering in the direction of Boss’s ration bars. Mess was a whole two hours away and Scorch had a month’s eating to make up for. “ _Sev’ika,_ no one could fuck up your range scores. You just pregamed with _Lasers & Blasters._” 

The ‘zine smacked the back of Scorch’s head, wet side flat.

 _Yeah, we're still good,_ Scorch thought, as he finally manhandled his stroppy brother onto the floor. _And we always will be._

**Author's Note:**

> For the curious, Sergeant Draka is a [codru-ji](https://starwars.fandom.com/wiki/Codru-Ji).


End file.
